i have picked beans
from the chest of the earth--
i am not grateful.
in the silence of winter
i comprehend only visions of
waning summer with its brown mountains,
rolling down to the valley barrels of
oak, ash, & yew full of
honey and beer.
today, there's only milk
which is the tricky warm feel
of marrow in the cold vast of everything dying
and i hallucinate a fiery wheat field
and some girl rolling down in barrels of
oak & ash & yew.
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